


Five Names Mrs Hughes Hasn't Had And One She Has

by lindsey_grissom



Series: Five Names 'Verse [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: AU, F/M, Five Times, Gen, spoilers for series 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 14:13:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2584298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ultimately five standalones positing what the world (and the chelsie relationship) would look like if Mrs Hughes was *not* Mrs Hughes, and one showing what it is/could be in canon.</p><p>(Plus one bonus outtake 'name')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One: Nanny

 

She has always liked the park in early Autumn. When the leaves have already changed but the weather is still dry, chilly and brisk, and she can bring the children out in their coats and hats without worrying that they'll all come home sodden and halfway to catching a cold.

There is something about the world painted in reds and browns that settles inside of her and sees her happily through even the harshest of Winters.

The children tend to be happier in Autumn, allowed to play without getting too hot. Jumping in the piles of crispy leaves swept up on every corner when she is feeling particularly forgiving.

She listens to the clip-clop of the horses on the path behind her, leans back into the bench to watch James try to teach little George how to throw a ball. She hasn't the heart to tell him yet that at three, his brother is not going to be the big help in improving his cricketing skills James hopes he will be. The older boy has been so excited this year now that George is old enough to play out with him. He had wanted a brother for quite some time.

James will be going away to school in a year or two, boarding through the school terms. It isn't her place to question her employers but she always hates when a family has this tradition. She understands how important education is, wants only the best for her charges. But she is the one that holds their hand as they cross the road, that wipes their eyes when they fall over. Who tells them stories to help them sleep after a nightmare. She sees how much the children love their parents and their siblings and then how hard they try to hide that they'll miss them when they're dressed up and leaving for the train.

"Did you see, Nanny! Georgie almost hit me that time!"

She smiles at James, nods to say she did see the ball fall from the little boy's hand and roll gently across a foot and half of grass.

"Well done Master George!" She will buy them an ice cream on the way home. The sun seems to be holding today and she knows that Mr Jones has kept a little aside for her even though it's now out of season. She doesn't know if they'll get back here again this year.

James hands the ball back to his brother, trotting the distance to stand beside his hat, which she supposes is as good a stand-in as anything for a wicket when the pitcher hasn't grasped even the basics of throwing just yet.

James thumps his bat against the ground, smiles at his brother and waves his hand. "Go on then Georgie."

The little boy looks at his brother, at the ball in his hand, at Elsie on her bench and then throws, underarm and too gentle to really go far.

James lunges forward so that the tip of his bat taps against the ball just enough to make a noise and she is on her feet clapping before she worries how that will look.

Thankfully, another thing she likes about the park in Autumn is that it is empty.

She sits again quickly as James runs in straight lines to and from his hat, his brother showing no interest in picking up the ball that has rolled back to his feet.

"Well done Master James, good show."

_Almost empty._

She blames the wind for the reddening she feels in her cheeks as Mr Carson settles on the bench beside her.

"Good afternoon, Mr Carson." She says, turning to smile at him.

"Miss Hughes." He nods at her, fingers raised to the brim of his hat as though for a moment he considered doffing it.

"It's late for you to be in London." She turns from him, back to the children where George has finally picked up the ball and James has graciously allowed this to stop his runs.

"Mrs Brithelwaite has finally given her notice and his Lordship has asked me to interview for a new Housekeeper for the house here."

Even from the corner of her eye she can see the way he puffs up at the thought of Lord Grantham trusting him with this.

"Well, there's no one better for the job, I'm sure." She says, biting her lip to keep in a smile. "Although how the 'big house' will do without you for a few days, I don't know."

"Something, Miss Hughes, that I shall worry about until I return."

She does laugh then, looks away from the boys just long enough to catch his own smile, his eyes sparkling.

"Daft man." He tips his head in what could be acceptance.

She has known Mr Charles Carson for almost 12 years now, when he took over as Lord Grantham's Butler and started to visit London each season. She was working for Sir and Lady Mileston at the time, caring for their two girls. {Spoilt little things when she arrived and on their way to being fine young ladies when she left - only some of their improvement she attributes to her own presence.}

They had been only the third family she had worked for, only the second here in London and she had often walked her charges through this park, settled beneath one of the trees or here on the bench with sandwiches and books. Annabel had loved to draw and so when the weather was particularly fine, they would set up a makeshift table out of a crate kindly donated by old Mr Jones and the young girl would rest her pad on it and sketch. Leaves, shoes, abandoned broken parasols lost to the wind. Nothing had been safe from that girl's pencil, including Elsie herself who would often find that soon after setting up, the girl would be directing her to _'sit this way, Nanny, no not like that, like...yes that's it and smile, no a real smile'_.

{She knows that she is softer on the children than she ought to be, but she finds that kind words and understanding get better results than some of the mean-spirited lecturing she has heard from other Nannies over the years. Besides, her charges only ever get the sharp side of her tongue the once before they think better of taking advantage.}

It had been during one of those not-taking-advantage modelling sessions that she had met Mr Carson. He had stumbled upon them - quite literally, tripping over the slightly spread out hem of Elsie's dress, his eyesight hindered by the tower of cardboard boxes he held in his hands.

It wasn't until he was quite far into his rant about public space and keeping pathways clear, her own anger increasing with every word, that he moved enough of the boxes to actually see her. Immediately he stopped, his face turning even redder than it had already become as he attempted to dip into a bow without losing any of his packages and apologised for his _'unforgivable and undeserved behaviour, Milady.'_

She supposes she should have been flattered to be mistaken for a Lady, and indeed she was, much later, when she revisited the whole scene in her memory. But at that moment, the suggestion that she _would_ deserve such a talking to if he had not mistaken her for a higher class had been rather the final straw.

She does not quite remember her words to him, and he has told her since that they were nothing harsher than he deserved given his own behaviour, but she rather thinks he is trying to spare her feelings. She knows she can be quite mean herself when she has a mind to.

He had been waiting by the bench the next day when she and the girls arrived, holding a box of cream pastries with a terribly nervous expression on his face.

Since then, she has seen him at least once a month every Season, more often when the Family are not entertaining but visiting and he can be spared, and he has become her dearest friend and most dedicated letter-writer.

"It isn't Summer no more, Mr Carson." James says as he leads his brother to the bench, evidently giving up on the game now that George looks only minutes away from sleep. His coat pocket bulges where he has stuffed the ball and the bat drags lines in the ground, hanging limply from his hand.

"'Anymore', James." She corrects, helping both boys up onto the seat next to her, not putting up even a token protest as the youngest crawls straight into her lap. {She put a stop to Mr Carson's disapproving looks at such actions years ago. Even still he smiles sheepishly at her as though remembering _that_ disagreement.} "And Mr Carson is here because Lord Grantham needs a new Housekeeper and he wants Mr Carson to choose someone to hire." She tries to impart with her tone how much of an honour that is for someone like Charles Carson.

"I got to choose which carriage father took to work this morning." James says after much thought, leaning around her side to peer up at the Butler. She supposes the two decisions do hold the same weight to the child.

"Well then, Master James, you know how important it is that I make the right choice."

The boy nods, tilting his head and obviously thinking something through. They wait for him and she thinks that as lovely as this unexpected time is with Mr Carson, the afternoon is beginning to fade and she should be getting the boys back home; she has some words to work with James on and George will need a proper sleep before dinner.

"Mr Carson," The boy starts eventually, leaning heavily into Elsie's side, "you're not going to hire Nanny are you?"

It's such a surprise and so unlikely that Elsie would laugh if she couldn't see how much the thought is obviously worrying the lad.

Mr Carson seems just as surprised, his eyes meeting hers over a now sleeping George's head, before something makes his eyes soften.

"No, Master James. I won't be taking your Nanny away." There is a wistful quality in the way he says it that she is sure has nothing at all to do with her not becoming a Housekeeper, even hypothetically.

She wraps her free arm around James, feels him press his head in against her side. She does love her charges even though she ought not to. "I don't think I'd make a very good Housekeeper." She says, meeting Mr Carson's eyes.

"I think you'd make a splendid one, Miss Hughes, in another life."

Something in the way that she feels as though an important moment has been lost, makes her think he isn't talking about the job at all. It's absurd really, Butlers do not marry and he would never ask her for anything else except for her friendship and he has been assured of that for a long time now.

She lets herself sit there for a few moments more, breathing in the early October air, before she jollies James into action, takes his free hand and with George in her arms, gets them all up off the bench.

"Goodbye, Mr Carson. See you in the Summer."

He does doff his hat then, the ridiculous man. "In the Summer, Miss Hughes. I'll let you know how the interviews go." He adds as she turns away.

"Please do, I'd like to see if my opinions of the candidates match your own." She answers, as close as he will come to promising to write and she will in promising to respond.

She smiles, heads out of the park. It is too late now for ice cream, they'll just have to return tomorrow, weather permitting. Perhaps Mr Carson might be free again too.


	2. Two: Lady Elizabeth

She enjoys visiting Lord and Lady Grantham when she passes through Yorkshire.

She makes a point, whenever she can, to stop in at Downton Abbey for a night, breaks her journey there.

The house is spectacular, of course and the company nothing if not entertaining. But what she appreciates most is how well it runs.

She knows society dictates that she credit Cora and Robert for this, but she is not an imbecile. She has a house of her own and it is dear Mr Crane and Mrs Blye who keep the place standing. If that were not the case it would have fallen to ruin when her husband died.

No, she knows that it is Mr Carson and Mrs White that keep Downton running, that it is a credit to the Butler's attention to detail that when she retires for the night, there is always a new book at her bedside.

She hardly ever actually _sleeps_ at Downton.

Mr Carson greets her at the door, sending another in what has seemed a long line of new footman over the years, to open her car door and carry her bags across the gravel drive.

"How are things, Mr Carson?"

{ _'Carson, milady'_ he had greeted her on her first visit to the house. _'Mr Carson'_ she had called him when she returned. He is as honourable and proud as any gentleman she has met and he deserves as much of a title as she can give him.}

"Very good milady." He nods to her, swings his arm wide for her to proceed through the doors. "I'm afraid His Lordship is still out on the hunt, and Lady Grantham and the young Ladies are taking luncheon at the Dowager House." He says in explanation for her lack of welcome party.

"So it's just you and me, Mr Carson." She can't help but smile at the barest pause in his steps. "I'm sure I can find something to amuse myself." She waits a beat, slipping off her hat, coat and gloves, catches the worried look in his eyes and barely resists rolling her own. "I meant something like tea in the library, Mr Carson. You look as though I might try to burn the place down."

She can see in an instant what he wants to say { _'there is precedence, milady'_ } and knows that he won't.

"That was one time, Mr Carson and I still say you overreacted to a little smoke." She says hurriedly before he can say something demure and dismissive, wants to acknowledge his unspoken thoughts.

His raised eyebrow and the amused tone of his "as you say, milady" tell her she was accurate in predicting where his mind had ventured.

"The maids have prepared the Blue Room for you, as usual milady. And Her Ladyship has asked Anna to see to you while you're here."

She never brings a ladies maid with her, she would never think of taking Ethel away from Charlie for as long as many of her trips last. In the hotels and smaller houses she often stays in, she sees to herself - she can after all dress and undress without help.

But she does enjoy Anna's company. The young woman can be such a breath of fresh air some days.

{If she could, she would steal a good number of the staff from the Abbey, from Mr Carson to young Daisy in the kitchens. They would never leave with her, she knows. She is becoming an old Lady and going into her employ is a far less exciting prospect than working in the house of a younger Count and Countess. For Mr Carson, it is a matter of loyalty. She might once have persuaded Spratt away from Violet, but why on Earth would she want to?}

She turns from Mr Carson and enters the library, studies the shelves as he leaves her to order some tea.

She adores a well kept library and Robert's is certainly that, wasted on him as it may be. At least his daughters and the staff gain the benefit.

On the third case from the door are a few new volumes and one conspicuous void, she wonders if she'll find the missing book by her bed tonight. It's an exciting prospect; Mr Carson has been attempting, in his anonymous way, to change her taste in literature for years and while he has not yet tempted her to lay aside all of her favourite genres, his choices are always quite delightful to read.

She wishes she were able to discuss them with him properly, to hear his thoughts and insights, to understand why he chooses those he does, what they mean to him.

It cannot be, of course, and she should not even think of it when she has her friends and those of her circle to discuss such things with. She imagines that he can be quite insightful, though. She thinks even a disagreement between them on a plotline or prose would provide hours of entertainment.

He returns with the tea tray after she has settled on a book. A small volume of short stories she read in her youth. The inside cover is marked with Mary's name, underlined twice and with a small note telling Edith to leave it alone. The sight of the childish scrawl makes her smile.

She remembers the Crawley sisters as very young children, dear Sybil had just been born when she and Lord Hawthorn first visited Downton. Edith and Mary couldn't keep away from each other, snapping and teasing but still staying close together, as though unable to face being apart even as they began annoying one another. She was much the same with her own sister, once.

"Thank you, Mr Carson." She says as he lays the tray on the table. She waves off his attempts to pour for her, making a cup up for herself with a little milk and a single cube of sugar. "Will you join me?" She asks, as she always does.

He raises one of those imperious eyebrows, straightens up even further and clasps his hands behind his back. "I cannot, milady." He answers as _he_ has always done.

She pours tea into the second cup anyway, adds cream and sugar {this is a tradition, one he seems willing to indulge her in; why else would he have provided two cups when no one else is to join her?} and rises to place it by his elbow at the desk.

"I'll just leave this here then, and you can ignore it."

{Long ago he had finally asked her why she continued to offer him tea when she knew he would never, could never join her. She told him that taking tea by oneself is a lonely and sad occasion and even pretending that she is not drinking alone can stave off melancholy for a short while. The next time she visited and found herself alone in the house, he had brought the second tea cup.}

She settles back with her tea, sips while watching him. He reminds her of the Royal Guard at Buckingham Palace; he neither flinches nor fidgets, though he must feel her eyes on him.

"How is young Sybbie?" She asks eventually. She'll ask Tom himself later, but she finds she wants Mr Carson's voice to fill the silence of the room.

"Well, milady. Nanny reports that she has taken her first steps."

"Oh how wonderful. Tom must be so proud." She must remember to send a gift back when she gets home. There's a toy maker in Manchester that creates the most delightful wooden wind up toys. Just the thing for a walking child to chase. "You must be looking forward to having children running about the place again."

"I admit that it will certainly liven the house, milady."

"And with Lady Mary's little one on the way."

"Indeed, milady."

She wants to say; _'have you played with Sybbie, Mr Carson? Does she have her father's temperament and her mother's curiosity? Will you favour Mary's child or will Sybil's little girl have you wrapped around her finger as her aunt does?'_

"Did Lady Grantham give a time for their return, Mr Carson?" She asks instead and he pulls his watch from his waistcoat just as she hears gravel crunch beneath car wheels through the window.

He leaves her then, to see to the Family and she places the book back on the shelf, unread. Turns to the doors as Cora enters, her mother-in-law following half a step behind.

"I'm so sorry, Elizabeth, we quite lost track of time."

She accepts the apology with a shake of her head, leans in to kiss Cora's cheek. "I've not been here long. And your Mr Carson has been keeping me company."

"Must you always keep the staff from their work, Elizabeth?" Violet says, kissing her cheek and then turning to the Butler. "You really should tell her you're too busy Carson. It's the only way she'll learn."

"It was no trouble milady."

Elsie thinks of how busy Mr Crane always is, how it is the middle of the day and Mr Carson must have wine to order and footmen to supervise.

"I think that's a lie, Mr Carson but I do thank you for it."

Mr Carson leaves with a short bow, Mary and Edith entering as he passes.

"We've ordered tea, Mama." Edith says, pulling off her gloves and making her way to Elsie. "It's lovely to see you Aunt Elsie."

Elsie hugs the girl close, she is the only person in the world who still calls her that. She hardly thinks of herself as Elsie anymore.

"Come sit down, Elizabeth." Violet points to the chair beside her. "I must tell you what cause Isobel has taken up now. Even though I suppose you'll be in full support of it anyway."

She sits, folds her hands in her lap. "You do realise she chooses some of these 'causes' as you say, because she loves to see you react?"

Violet sniffs, while the others turn away to hide their smiles.

"Mm, I had worked that out for myself, dear. She reminds me of you, you know. When you would insist on using that dreadful accent whenever we spoke."

"Really, mama." "Granny!"

With a quirk of her lip, she meets the Dowager's challenge, lets her Scottish brogue take over, rolls her 'r's just a little longer than she ought.

"It was always such fun to see that wee frown on your face, Violet. I could hardly resist."

Mr Carson returns with a maid and a fresh pot of tea while she talks and she notices a slight flush to his face. She does hope he isn't getting sick.

"Dreadful." Violet repeats, sipping at her tea. "Now, I was telling you about Isobel..."

These occasional stops at Downton make up some of her fondest memories.


	3. Three: Beth

She prepares them a late supper. Ever since the war broke out he has been staying at the house later than before. She understands, there are so few men around now, so many of the young staff have been conscripted if they hadn't already volunteered.

She has always wished she had given Charles a son, a little boy he would have bounced on his knee and taught to fish. She has never in all their life together, been more pleased to have daughters instead.

Oh, they have doted on the girls, never felt the lack for not having a son, but she thinks once he would have liked to know his name would go on after them.

Now she knows they are so very lucky. They only have Katie's Jamie to worry about and that's hard enough.

She steps out for a minute - the food will keep, the soup bubbling along, the bread cooling on the table - and takes a deep breath of Spring air. Looks for him up the path, listens out for his familiar tread.

He isn't there and she is not surprised, for him it's still early yet, the sun not set.

She takes a moment as she turns back, to look up at their cottage, at the spray of ivy that curls around the side to arch over the doorway, the little nameplate beside the front window - _the carsons_ \- with the backwards 'e' that Maisie made when she was just seven. {It was the first thing she made for them that was more than the drawings they would pin to the walls. Charles had been so pleased with it, so proud of the little carving that he varnished it the next day, nailed it on the wall a few days later. Their little girl had been excited to see it there for weeks.}

The light wind flutters the hair at her neck and she can hear a dog bark in the distance. Isis, she thinks, out for a last run before retiring with her master.

They're so close to the house here that from the gate, if she rises to her toes and squints she can just make out a shadow moving about in the lit window of Lady Mary's room. Anna.

She heads back towards the door again, brushes her fingers along the roses just starting to bud. She has taken great care of them this year, has high hopes for the show. She will never win, of course, but she does enjoy the annoyed look in the Dowager Countess's eyes when she presents them.

They all know the contest is fixed.

Their home is small, but comfortably so. They have lived here with two young lasses filling the place with fights and laughter and not felt they were tripping over each other.

She _has_ been to the Abbey. Once, when Charles returned to take his place there again, when he had presented her to the young Lord as his new wife - started to be _Charles_ instead of Charlie - and countless times since when she has visited Beryl for tea or dropped in to return the young Ladies' dresses, mended or adjusted as needed, to Anna.

She cannot imagine living there, with all those draughty corridors and empty rooms. Cannot understand anyone who needs more bedrooms than they have people to fill them.

She has always been happy with their modest rooms and garden. What would Charles need with his own dressing room, with a bed in it no less? The settee in the sitting room has sufficed for the nights they've argued, though she knows it is hardly a comfortable rest for him, his long body tightly folded into it. Perhaps that is why they often reach a compromise before bed.

The spicy scent of the soup surrounds her as she pushes through the door, closes and locks it behind her because Charles worries about things like that.

He worries about a good many things these days, far more than he did in their youth. Katie is like that, always fussing over the state of their roof, the chill that persists in the Winter _'are you sure we can't help, mama? Jamie knows a roofer, he could fix it for nothing if we asked, papa. Are you eating enough, sleeping enough, papa you look a little red are you sick?'_

Charles can't see it, only resists his girl's attempts to help, but she can. They are so alike.

Maisie worries inside, is more of a thinker; a plotter Charles calls her. She assesses, analyses and doesn't mention a thing until the wheels are already set in motion and before they know it they have electricity installed and a telephone in the back room.

{ _'what if mama gets sick, papa and you're up at the house? Isn't it better that she can call a doctor instead of waiting until you get home?'_ }

She maintains that she hasn't a clue where their youngest gets those traits from.

The orange light of the setting sun catches the floating dust and fluff in the sitting room, makes them sparkle. Caught in amongst them in a moment of fancy, she twirls on her toes, round and around, keeps her head spotting on the window so she won't get dizzy.

She has not danced properly in years, decades. Not since she married her man and they left London for Yorkshire.

{He had been in love with someone else for much of their early friendship, huddled together in the back rooms of the theaters. She had waited patiently for him to notice her while he told her of his darling Alice, his plans to marry her and raise children while he performed, touring the country as a little family of theatre-folk. She had never, not once, told him to stop dreaming even when she was sure those dreams would not bring him much joy. She hadn't been sure then how to say that for all his eagerness to be in love, he did not seem happy in his life. That she thought there was some other profession he was better suited to, one with the flair and theatricality but without the cold nights with no food and the daily humiliation of performing for men who hardly looked up from their glasses to see you.

She had been disenchanted herself by then, tired of the chorus line; couldn't be sure she wasn't just seeing her thoughts in him and not his own.}

She senses him in the room before his arms slip around her waist, fingers splayed out against her stomach.

"There's no one here to see your show, Beth." He says, nuzzles in behind her ear, kisses her neck.

"Except you, Charlie." For a long time before they left, she had only been performing for him anyway.

His arms tighten around her, pull her back into his chest.

"You're early tonight." She says, raising her chin towards the window where light is still visible.

"The family retired early." He mumbles into her neck, she tilts her head to give him more access. "I gave Bates the keys, he can lock up tonight. I've missed you." He adds, one hand rising to her chest, cupping her in his palm.

{If she has ever thought of herself as a second choice, his consolation prize, it can only have been for a half-second, forgotten the moment he touched her, looked at her. She cannot imagine that any man could love her more completely than Charles has all these years.}

"Soup first." She says, slaps playfully at his arm until he releases her breast, wraps her more loosely in his embrace. She turns in his arms, rises onto her toes to drop a butterfly kiss on his lips. She loses herself in it for a moment, as he deepens the kiss, brushes his tongue against her bottom lip - the one she worries with her teeth when she thinks.

She forces herself to think of the food, their meal not yet ready now that he's early.

"No Mr Carson." She says when she can finally pull away, takes several steps back and puts some distance between them.

"You're a terrible tease Mrs Carson." He pouts, magnificent eyebrows scowling at her.

She turns from him with a wink, heads for the kitchen.

"Go wash up, love. I'll have supper on the table when you're done."

She pops her head back into the room a moment later. "Don't look under the pillows Charles, I picked something up in Ripon today and I want it to be a surprise later."

He lunges towards her and she jumps backwards, hurries to the kitchen and leans back against the closed door.

"Evil woman." He growls and she can hear him making his way up the stairs to their bedroom.

She smiles, goes to raise the heat under the soup.

Katie will be arriving in a few days, staying with them until Jamie comes back (she prays that it will be soon, as she does for all the men out there). {She hasn't said anything, but she suspects the young man left his wife with a little something before he got on that train. She has been carefully hiding her latest knitting project from Charles, doesn't want him fretting needlessly. They would both love a grandchild crawling about the place.}

So they only have a short time alone before they must share each other again, before they'll have to take care to be quiet, to not cry out or whisper too loud.

She stirs the pot, sprinkles a little more seasoning in.

"Beth Carson!" She jumps at his shocked bellow, laughs. He never has been able to resist peeking.


	4. Four: Mrs Burns

 

She needs to get to the henhouse. She's left securing them to the last minute, even though she knows better. How many times had Joe told her? _'Never leave the hens to last, girl, something'll happen and you won't get to them.'_ Foxes are a real threat, even with the hunts starting up again, even with the storm blowing in.

She doesn't do it to be contrary, she just hates chickens. Can't stand the things with their clucking and flapping, all that mess of flying feathers and unnecessary bother. Give her a field full of cows any day - they might be more work, but at least it's not the frantic panic that she finds collecting eggs to be.

{She told Joe when they started walking out that she wouldn't be responsible for the chickens. Told him that if he thought she'd be crawling around scrounging under a lot of bony bums for eggs, trying not to get pecked into an early grave, then he'd be best to walk away now, find himself a more suitable girl.

He had asked her to marry him, dropped onto one knee right there in her Ma's sitting room. They'd only agreed to court two days earlier.}

Still, the storm shows no sign of skipping over the farm and if she doesn't get that henhouse locked up tight now, she'll only have to spend the night in the back room pointing the shotgun out the window.

She likes the gun even less than she does the chickens.

Tugging on boots and her coat she heads out, almost blown back into the house with the strength of the wind.

This storm's going to be a bad one.

The cows are already in and she's got the horses tucked up in the stables. After she's finished with the hens it'll just be the house and the buildings she has to worry about and there's nothing she can do about those. They lost half of the far shed roof in the last big storm and that wall along the back field has been looking a little wobbly for most of the year.

She hopes she still has some luck due her; she can't afford many repairs and she'd really rather not take the matter to her Landlord.

{Joe always said Lord Wilton was a kind man, and he may be, but he doesn't like that she's still here and since Joe's death she's been battling hard to keep their farm and land out of his hands.}

It starts raining before she's even reached the henhouse. Great heavy sheets of it that soak her through. She'll have to get the sand bags if it means to keep on like this.

Turning her head away to keep the wind on her cheek and out of her eyes, she hurries along the worn path. She's making stew for dinner and she can't wait for it now, craving the heat.

Lightening flashes across the sky and it's another minute before the thunder follows.

She secures the hens quickly, the storm seeming to make the dry henhouse more favourable to them for once. Almost runs back to the house.

Gets almost there before she sees the barn, the unlatched doors. Doors she is very aware of latching an hour ago, coming away with a splinter in her finger.

She has come across thieves before and vagrants seeking shelter. She has nothing against the latter, it's the former that's a problem. She's here alone after all, and no one's going to come out to her in this weather, even if she did have a way of contacting the local constabulary.

She should leave them alone, or re-latch the doors and wait until the storm passes, send word into town come morning and let the matter be dealt with by the police.

Only, what if it's just a homeless man seeking shelter? The barn gets pretty draughty on a good day and tonight is certainly not one of those.

{Joe often told her she was too kind for her own good, that one day she'd try to help the wrong person and end up in a world of trouble. She'd tell him _'there's little enough kindness in the world Joe Burns'_ , and besides, why else did he think she married him?}

She pushes the doors open quickly, a hard shove that swings them back against the wall with a bang. Lightening streaks out behind her and she couldn't have planned that better if she tried.

"I know you're in here." She says, squinting towards the nearest bails of hay where the shadows seem darker, thicker. "My husband's just down the path, if I shout he'll come with the shotgun." She rather hopes her visitor doesn't call her bluff.

A pause and then a shuffle, the squelch of wet shoes against the concrete floor. The shadows move and then she sees him. Tall, broad, a hat forced down low on his brow with rain water, thick bushy eyebrows just peeking out under the brim. His coat is sodden, dripping great puddles all about him. She meets his eyes; knows somehow that he isn't a threat.

The thunder booms and they both jump. The man pulls his hat from his head, holds it in both hands in front of him.

"I'm sorry ma'am. I don't mean to startle you." His voice is deep, a sort of grumble and the accent isn't at all local {although that means nothing really, there's not so many Scots here either}.

She doesn't bother to ask him what he's doing, that's obvious enough and she cannot stand an obvious question. Instead she takes another look at him, the old but well made coat, the shoes; speckled with mud but still shiny along the tops. He's no vagrant and unless he means to kill her to keep her quiet, he's letting her take in too many details of him to be a good thief.

"Come along with you then." She says eventually, turns away.

"I-I beg your pardon?"

She looks at him over her shoulder. "You can't want to spend all night out here?" He shakes his head, albeit after a slight pause. "Well then, you best come up to the house. We both of us could do with a good drying out, I shouldn't wonder. Be sure to latch the doors behind you."

She leaves the barn, keeps walking until she hears the heavy creak of the doors closing, pauses on the path for him to catch up.

The sky lights up again, the thunder not so far behind now, the storm moving in.

"I'm not sure you should just invite a stranger into your house." He says from her left when she continues walking.

"So you _would_ rather spend the night in the barn then?"

"No-no of course not." He blusters, and she has to fight down a smile as he clears his throat. "But you don't know me. I could wish you harm."

She cannot imagine anyone wanting to harm her less than she believes this man does, concerned as he is about the safety of a woman he has just met. It makes her laugh.

"I dare say you could, sir. But then I think you'd have come to the house first and not hidden away in the barn."

She feels his eyes on her, reaches out for the door handle and ushers him into the porch.

He mumbles something as he removes his coat, looks around for somewhere to hang it before giving in and laying it across her outstretched arm, atop her own.

"What was that?"

"I said,- that is... I _did_ try the house. There was no answer." She can't be certain, but she thinks his red cheeks might not just be from the wind. He steps out of his shoes, lines them up against the wall. Stands there in his socks, his toes flexing against the cold wood.

"So you thought to make yourself at home in my barn?"

She fights another laugh at the affronted look on his face, the silent opening and closing of his mouth.

She settles him with an outstretched hand. Wiggles her fingers at his damp jacket. "You'd best give me that too."

He hesitates, she has never met a man more reluctant to remove his wet things but she rolls her eyes and repeats the gesture. "I was down with the chickens." She says while he unbuttons.

His fingers pause, head shooting up. "Alone, in this storm?"

She's not sure why this continued worry over her safety doesn't annoy her as much as usual. She's as capable as any man to look after herself and this farm and she would usually take a pound of flesh from anyone who implied otherwise.

Instead she shakes her head and folds his jacket over their coats, picks up his hat from the floor. Heads for the bathroom. "Who else is going to do it?" She says, adds; "there's a fire just through there" and tilts her head towards the sitting room.

"Mr Carson." He says, stopping her from walking away. "Charles Carson." He holds out his hand before he remembers that her own are full.

She nods, smiles. "Elsie Burns." Raises her chin and points with it. "Go on through, warm up a bit. I'll find you some dry clothes."

She hangs their coats and his jacket over the tub. They'll take some time to dry {his coat is indeed well made, a heavy wool that holds the water and feels weighted with it} so she chooses one of Joe's best suits, jacket and all. Airs out the coat he wore to church his last Winter. Mr Carson will need something dry to return home in tomorrow. Wherever that may be.

She stops at the kitchen after changing her own dress, puts the kettle on the stove, raises the heat beneath the stew glad that she always makes more than she can ever eat alone in one sitting.

She finds Mr Carson crouched in front of the fire, poker in hand adjusting the burning logs, his face a study in concentration.

"You don't do that often." She says, smiles in apology when he jumps at her voice.

"No." He says, rising to his feet and placing the poker back on its stand. "We've a kitchen maid who lights them at the house."

"And housemaids to tend to them too, no doubt."

He inclines his head but offers no more. He is in service, she's sure of that now. As much of a gentleman as he seems, she is certain the house with the maids is not his own.

He looks at the clothes in her hands. "Are those for me?"

An obvious question; she lets it slide. "My husband's things; he was a little shorter than you, but liked to wear his trousers long."

He takes them from her with a genuine thank you and she points him towards the bathroom. "You can change in there."

She has the tea ready to pour when he returns. She catches his eye as he walks through the doorway and he stops, gives the hem of the jacket a tug. Holds out his arms. "What do you think?"

The sleeves are a tad short, the cuffs of his shirt showing, and Mr Carson is taller than she thought; the trousers still coming up a little higher than they ought. "I doubt you'd pass in any sort of society, Mr Carson. But you'll do for tea on the farm."

He smiles and she's sure she heard him disguise a laugh as a huff earlier.

"Sugar?" She asks, and drops in the two cubes he favours.

They sip their tea for a while, the storm batting against the windows. It's a comfortable silence. She hasn't had company like this since Joe and the thought sticks in her mind.

{She and Joe had never been friends, not before their wedding and not really after. But they would try. He'd spend time with the lads, and she the few young lasses that always found their way to the farm in summer, but an evening was spent by the fire, the two of them. He wasn't a great talker, her Joe. Not a man of philosophy or literature. But he was a comfort, a warm presence at the end of the day. She misses that now, more than she missed having someone to argue a side with all those years.}

She can sense Mr Carson looking at her as she tops up their cups. Waits until she places the teapot back down on the table before waving a hand at him.

"Go on." He blinks at her, startled. "You've something to say, so say it. There's no ceremony around here you need to stand on Mr Carson."

"Right. Well." She thinks, actually, that she knows what he wants to ask. There is after all, no sign of anyone expected to join them as he might have thought. "You said your husband was outside..." He lets the sentence rest, coughs a little and clears his throat.

She isn't sure why, but her instinct is to relieve his discomfort. "But he hasn't come in, and I've been speaking of him in the past tense?"

Mr Carson nods, looking uneasy but perhaps less so for not having had to ask her himself.

"I'm afraid I lied to you, Mr Carson." She watches her fingers turn her tea cup; white with little blue flowers, {one of a set of six, three chipped and hidden away at the back of the cupboard. Her wedding set. She's not sure what made her bring these out this evening. They're usually reserved for the rarest of occasions}.

"Mr Burns died some time ago now." She says, not one to mince her words. He did not pass away, did not leave. He died and she lives on with that.

"I am sorry Mrs Burns." He says the words quietly, as close as his deep voice can likely get to a whisper, she thinks.

"Thank you."

"And you're here alone now?" She raises an eyebrow, peers at him from behind her cup.

"I am." They were not blessed with children and the lads that work during the day have their own homes to return to, their own families to feed.

He must read something in her face, a warning perhaps because he clears his throat again, obviously a nervous gesture, and changes the subject.

"I work for Lord Grantham." He says, as though that should mean something to her. Of course, the fact is that it does, although she is tempted not to let on.

"You're quite a way from Downton." She says, quirks her lip at his surprise. "Further still from the London house, and it's out of season of course."

She can see that he wants to ask her how she knows, _what_ she knows. She remembers his name now, vaguely. He hadn't been there for her interview at the Abbey, although the Housekeeper had written that he would be. Errands, she thinks she remembers, something that kept him in the village later than it should have. {He is the Butler, of course, more of him making sense to her every minute.}

"I was meeting with a...an acquaintance." He continues eventually, leaving questions of her knowledge behind. "An old friend. It did not go...well."

"And so you went for a walk."

"I did."

She smiles, collects up their empty cups onto the tray. "There is many a man and woman who has been turned around in these hills, Mr Carson."

She herself got lost a time or two when she first moved here.

"I can only thank you for your kindness, Mrs Burns, in taking me in."

She looks at him from the doorway, tray in hand. "Well then, I best feed you too I suppose."

She thinks a moment, turns away to hide her smile. "The storm won't let up until tomorrow I shouldn't think, so I'll do up the guest room for you, Mr Carson. You can stay the night."

She walks away before he can reply, hears the slightly choked indrawn breath anyway.

Yes, she rather thought he hadn't considered that.


	5. Five: Nurse Hughes

 

She's always a little surprised by just how calm the servants halls are. She sees them all hurrying around - bells ringing every few minutes, food almost constantly being prepared, clothes mended - but it still seems calm. Calmer at least, than the surgery gets some days when there's an emergency - a farm accident or the like - and everyone is rushing around. She supposes there's a difference between hurrying to save someone's life, and making sure that dinner is served on time with the family dressed and ready to eat it. Although she knows at least one man in this house who would disagree with her.

"Daisy, why on Earth aren't you in the kitchens, Mrs Patmore is going-Nurse Hughes." Speak of the devil and he shall come, although there is very little of the devil in Mr Carson, except perhaps for the redness in his cheeks today.

"Mr Carson." She acknowledges with a smile, slowly closing the book in front of her. If he is here looking for Daisy, then today's lesson is over.

"Is someone sick, should I ring for Doctor Clarkson?"

She shakes her head, hardly resists rolling her eyes at him. She has been coming here now for a few weeks and while it's true they haven't crossed paths, she thought he would know by now why she's here. Suspects in fact, that he does know, but he can only show his disapproval respectfully, in so many ways.

"Relax, Mr Carson. Everyone's well, family _and_ staff." She pauses, narrows her eyes. "And I'd dare say that if anyone were sick and I'd been called here alone, Doctor Clarkson would have known and considered his presence unnecessary." She adds.

"Mrs Hughes is here to help me with my studying Mr Carson."

"Nurse Hughes, Daisy."

"Miss Hughes, actually." She pipes up, a small smile curling her lips. "Or Elsie, if I've a choice, but no one can bring themselves to say either here. I imagine that's your doing, Mr Carson?"

Mr Carson shuffles, smoothes the front of his waistcoat down, tugs at his jacket. "Yes, well, you have earned the title, Nurse Hughes and deserve the respect to be called by it."

"Even when I'd rather not?" She adds wryly.

"Even then. It's only proper for a guest in this house."

Which, she imagines is rather the largest issue he has with her name and quite a few other things about her, about _them_. {She has been a guest of the family, invited to dine here during the war at Mrs Crawley and Lady Sybil's request and where before she thought they might have been making a little progress towards friendship, seeing her sitting beside Her Ladyship rather tore that fragile beginning apart.}

"I should go help Mrs Patmore." Daisy says from beside her, gathering her books. Elsie jumps a little, having forgotten the girl was there, turns her face down to hide the blush she feels rising. "Thank you Mi- Nurse Hughes."

"I'll see you next week, Daisy. See if you can't solve those equations I've written out." She pauses a moment, flicks her eyes to the Butler. "I'm sure Mr Carson can help you if you get stuck."

She smiles brightly as the girl all but runs from the hall, passing Mr Carson with a quick _'thank you Mr Carson'_.

She meets the man's raised eyebrow once she's gone. "And what if I'm busy, Nurse Hughes. Not all of us have time to indulge the silly girl's whims."

She shakes her head at him, less annoyed than she perhaps should be to find that what she has heard is true. He really cannot see how much Daisy needs this, wants to learn. She longs to tell him how her own father reacted when she told him she had a place at the nursing school, that she would be leaving the farm not for service, not to marry, but to study medicine as well as a woman can. That her afternoons spent with Old Doctor Richards, the both of them curled over his ancient medical texts, had filled her mind with more dreams that she ever thought possible. She wants him to know how long it took her to get over her Pa's disapproval, how much just one word from him in support would have meant to her when she struggled with something and wondered if she shouldn't just give it all up and marry a farmer after all.

"And here I thought you said you respected my title, Mr Carson. And yet you think I don't have enough work of my own to do?"

He blinks quickly, rubs his palm more vigorously against his waistcoat.

"Nurse Hughes, I didn't mean to imply..."

"Not to worry, Mr Carson. I know what you meant, and I take no _real_ offense to it."

She expects him to calm at that, but he remains agitated, his breath speeding up. The red she noticed in his cheeks earlier is more pronounced now, the rest of him looking whiter against it.

She jumps up, hurries to his side. Takes his elbow in one hand, circles his wrist with the other.

"Here, have a seat Mr Carson, you don't look at all well."

The ease with which she guides him into the chair tells her a little more about how out of sorts he must feel.

Her fingers press against his pulse, counting the beats. His heart is racing, which explains the shortness of breath.

His body trembles, his frame shaking against her as she crouches beside him.

"Deep breaths, Mr Carson. Let's get your heart rate down a little and then you can tell me how long _you've_ been feeling ill."

He turns wide eyes on her, an adamant and wholly unbelievable denial in them.

"I can feel your raised temperature, Mr Carson." And his breathing, as uneven as it is, sounds crackly this close. "So don't think you can lie to me."

His breathing evens out after a few minutes, his heart rate steadying slowly.

When she is sure that he can talk without risk of another episode, she has him tell her which of the footman she'll need to tell to take his place at the dinner tonight. He puts up a fuss, but as he is reluctant to stand yet, he gives into her eventually.

Mr Barrow seems altogether too gleeful at the idea of Mr Carson's infirmity, but she allows him the benefit of the doubt this once, that he is just excited by his temporary rise in status.

In her absence, someone has brought him a cool glass of water and she encourages him to sip at it slowly.

"Now then, Mr Carson. Which way to your bedroom?"

{She has never been to the servants' quarters, hasn't treated any of the staff there. She moved to Downton with the army hospital at Doctor Clarkson's request, slept in the nurses' quarters provided in the village, only came down below-stairs when she got herself turned around looking for some extra blankets. She thinks that most quarters are in the attics, but she can't be sure.}

"Nurse Hughes!"

"Mr Carson, you need to rest. I have my case here, so once you're settled in we can see if we need to call Doctor Clarkson or if we can handle it all on our own."

She suspects rest and some cool cloths for his head will be enough, it sounds as though the worst of it will be his chest and if they can reduce the rest, it shouldn't settle too heavy there in the end.

"There is no we, Nurse Hughes. I am perfectly able to take care of myself."

She raises an eyebrow of her own, looks at him pointedly. "If that were true, Mr Carson, then the Doctor and I would have seen you at the surgery already to be treated."

He glares at her. Puffs up his chest only to collapse in on himself as it causes him to cough.

"Really, Mr Carson. Must you be this stubborn? This is my job, you realise." His cheeks are as red as before and she wonders if it's embarrassment as well as fever; she supposes _he_ might find it to be quite improper to allow a woman into his bedroom, even a nurse - and not even a young one at that.

"Mr Carson, if you'll allow me to help you to your rooms - upstairs?" She guesses, and he slowly nods. "If you let me help you, I promise to wait outside until you've changed and only come in when you are settled in bed?" With his sheets up to his chin no doubt.

She waits, sure that his silence will end with a refusal and she'll have to begin this hoopla again with another compromise.

He surprises her with nod, carefully rising to stand and indicating that she should proceed ahead of him.

She allows him that independence here, where he can be seen by the other servants and when they reach the back stairs, she grasps his elbow again and ignores the outrage in his eyes.

"You know, Nurse Hughes, you're quite stubborn yourself."

She smiles, takes a little more of his weight with each step. "It's in my blood, Mr Carson. Rather a benefit; you're not the most difficult patient I've ever had."

She leaves him as promised in the corridor outside his room. Goes back down to retrieve her bag, leans back against the wall on her return.

She understands the reluctance people have to seeking help when sick. After her own recent scare she certainly understands not wanting to know, preferring to live with the uncertainty because at least then the worst is only a possibility and not a guarantee. But she also knows how dangerous that can be. There is nothing weak about illness.

She rather wishes men would more readily accept that.

She hears the creak of bed springs, waits a few minutes more before knocking.

He has, as predicted, tucked the blankets up as high around his neck, although she doubts they will stay there for long; he's looking too warm already. She wonders if he has even remembered that she will need to check his heart, listen to his lungs.

{These are all jobs that the doctor would usually do, she is not an expert. But she had a lot of extra duties during the war when doctors were short and nurses would do for a lot in a pinch. Doctor Clarkson has not asked her yet to reduce all of her skills back down to nursing level. She suspects Mrs Crawley's influence there.}

The room is small and Mr Carson looks almost comical, his large frame in such a little bed, likely only just long enough for him when he lies flat.

She pulls her eyes from the few items he has in the room, shoves down her curiosity about this man, the temptation to look around and learn as much as she can.

"Well now, Mr Carson. Let's see what we have."

She settles her bag on the table by his bed, pulls out a thermometer which he accepts in his mouth with a petulant huff.

She thinks, for a moment, that they might end up in a slight tug of war when she tries to pry the sheets away from him, but she looks at him, tries to convey how ridiculous such a thing would be and his fingers unclench.

She has neither husband nor son, but she has seen more than her share of male chests, in all states.

Her fingers unbutton his pyjama top with sure movements, only far enough to get the stethoscope beneath the fabric.

She tells herself every time that this is clinical and it is. She would be a poor nurse indeed if she reacted inappropriately to the charges in her care.

And Mr Carson has always treated her properly. {Not like some of the men on the wards throughout the years. She cannot count how often she has been touched and pinched. Though they have only ever dared to do it the once each.} She knows it isn't because of their ages now, but a part of his personality, something inbuilt. A respect he has for all women.

His chest is as she suspected, a little build up there that she will have Doctor Clarkson come out to assess tomorrow morning before he starts in at the surgery.

She looks up to tell Mr Carson so, and finds his head tipped back against the wall, the glass thermometer dangling somewhat precariously from his slightly open mouth.

She can't help the smile, is glad he can't see it, as soft as she thinks it must be.

She buttons him up again carefully, tucks the sheets and blankets in around his waist and then reconsiders.

His temperature is not high, at least not worryingly so, but still a cold compress should help with the headache he has likely had all day, as will sleeping without the awkward angle his neck is currently at.

Shushing him gently as he stirs, she guides him to lay down properly in the bed, tucks the blankets in around him once again.

She pours water into the wash bowl, wrings out a cloth.

He stirs again as the cold touches him, and it is harder than it has ever been with a patient not to card her fingers through his hair to soothe him. He settles by himself after a moment and she steps back from the bed, fingers shaking.

{She has forgotten, in time, how he made her feel at the start. After the hurt and disappointment, she thought she had accepted how he wished things to be between them. She doesn't know if they might ever have been anything more than friends, but she suspects that she at least, had been falling. It worries her that those feelings can be so easily found again.}

She had thought to stay with him, but she isn't sure now if that is right. She'll talk to Mrs White, the Housekeeper will know who can be spared to keep an eye on him until the Doctor comes by.

She gathers up her things quietly, pauses at the door but forces herself not to look back. He deserves his privacy and she won't take advantage of him like this.

She will be back to see Daisy in a few days, she'll look in on him again then. In the meantime, the Doctor will keep her informed.

She must be content with that, they are not friends after all.


	6. One: Mrs Hughes

 

She steps away from the path, rounds the house and takes a deep breath.

The air tastes like Summer, like ice cream and clean cut grass and she holds onto as much of it as her lungs can take, for as long as they can manage before letting it all out in a rush.

It makes her feel light headed, giddy, but she feels more herself now, more present in the moment than she has all day. Perhaps longer than that.

She isn't sure exactly, what has changed these last few weeks, but something has. Organising the Summer fete is always hard work, always takes up more of her time than she'd like. But so rewarding for all that. A day where they work, but outdoors, sip tea and lemonade in the tents like the Ladies do - not together, of course, but still in the same place, doing the same thing.

It's a reward, as much as it can be, for all the work, the stress; an apology for the weeks of changing menus, table cloths, decorations and guest lists. The service is relaxed, informal and no one minds too much if a footman is seen watching the young girls and boys play ball beside the cake stalls instead of gathering drink orders, so long as they come to as soon as a request is sent their way.

Even Mr Carson, she knows, enjoys the fetes more than he lets on.

He might grumble quite loudly that standards drop too far when indoors staff are allowed outside, but she sees him each year, taking a few moments to step back himself and watch.

Supervising, he would say if prompted, but she knows, after all these years she knows.

{Almost thirty now, in service here. Twenty-Nine summer fetes, twenty-six London seasons, twenty new maids, eleven different footmen, four births, three deaths. - _One property._ \- The important moments of her life reduce down to numbers far too easily, all of them experienced with him at her side - or at the end of a letter, a telephone.}

She takes another deep breath, holds it longer than before, breathing quickly after to make up for it.

She no longer wears a corset, hasn't for some time and the dress she has on is new. All of her dresses are new, when new really means she hasn't owned them for more than a year.

It made sense to replace them when they no longer fit her changed shape. She could have tried unpicking the seams, cutting and tucking and then sewing them back up again, but they were all old dresses, and she could afford the expense - Mr Carson was right to say they would each save a good amount of money from the rental, have a tidy sum each put away.

She turns her head at a loud shout, a raucous chorus of laughs. Watches the wind ruffle the green leaves of an old oak.

From here she can't see the tables and tents, the strings of flags and bows.

If she listens carefully, she can pick out the _ting_ of glasses touching, the throaty laugh of the Dowager and the answering one of Mrs Crawley. She can hear Mr Barrow chiding a young hallboy not to get in his way when he's holding a tray full of drinks, wonders if the Under-Butler's anger will pass quickly, or if the poor young lad has just put himself on a rather long list.

Somewhere, Daisy is about, come up from the farm to help Mrs Patmore. Visiting more than anything but no one can deny that the cakes and biscuits were baked in half the time with her here.

She can hear the puppies yapping, the high voice of Master George as he no doubt chases them about, giggling and shouting, revelling in his latest game.

She hears of all this, and the wind too, the creak of the gate down the path.

All she can see are the leaves.

Mrs Patmore is retiring. She told them a week ago, joined them for sherry in Mr Carson's pantry and said that her tenant is moving out, that she doesn't plan to find another.

{It could be coincidence that her disconnect worsened then, but Elsie knows that it's not.}

Their world is changing again, she can feel it, somewhere deep down inside. She has a choice, to change with it or remain still, the same steady presence, let time battle around her and stay almost untouched.

Another deep breath, more quick gasps for air. Anything to break the band around her chest.

She thinks perhaps she has been ready for change for a while now, has just been waiting for...has just been waiting.

{Three years ago she bought a cottage - _half a cottage_ \- with two bedrooms upstairs, a kitchen, sitting room and an inside bathroom. She accepted a _suggestion_ that they let it out until they retire and share the rent that came in. They reached an agreement then, a promise, that bound their lives together more closely than their years of friendship, of working together could.

Mr Carson spoke of retirement that day, standing in Mrs Patmore's kitchen. Of _their_ retirement later in her sitting room. He hasn't mentioned it since and sometimes, for all that they have learnt about each other, for all the little changes they have made between them, she wonders if he hasn't changed his mind about that, suspects as she had joked, that they might die in harness after all.}

"What on earth are you doing, Mrs Hughes?"

His hand lands on her shoulder, fingers gripping tight.

"Breathing." She says and tries it again, the band loosening after all, with his presence.

"You're not doing a very good job of it." She meets his eyes, takes in the panic, the fear. Realises just how uneven her breathing has become and makes a greater effort to calm it. She's too old now to behave like a young lass. "Should I fetch Doctor Clarkson?"

She shakes her head, tugs his hand into hers and holds it close. Kisses his knuckles, the back of his palm.

He tenses, even more than he already is and she thinks that if he wasn't so worried, he would look away from her, make sure no one can see. She kisses the skin where his thumb joins.

"Elsie?" He asks voice hesitant, still worried, still scared. She supposes she isn't acting much like herself just now.

"I'm okay Charles." {He never asked her to call him that, but then he never told her not to once she started. Waited for her to make the request before using her own given name.}

She plays with his fingers, rubs circles with her thumb on the backs. Watches the way the digits move about each other, his amongst hers, only size and colour keeping them separate to her eyes.

"What are you doing Elsie?" He asks again, curls his fingers, traps hers in his fist.

He tilts her chin up with his free hand. This is more contact than they've had in a single moment together. They have held hands before {on a Brighton beach, in Mr and Mrs Bates' kitchen when little Lizzie was born, when he caught her as she walked past his pantry the first day without her corset} and he has touched her face, her cheek. Pressed kisses there before leaving for the Seasons.

But never like this, not in the open, not where anyone could see.

His breath on her forehead gives her the courage to tell him.

"I want to retire." She says, air rushing out of her {full of summer and ice creams and giggling little boys}.

He smiles, leans forward and presses his lips to her temple, palm cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone.

"Okay." He whispers, stirs the hairs on her head. "Mr Davis's agreement at the cottage expires at the end of November, that should be enough time."

She wants to smile, to believe it can be that simple, but there are still things she doesn't know, things they have never spoken about. "Enough time for what, Mr Carson?"

"To arrange our replacements, Mrs Hughes." She relaxes at that, chides herself for doubting that he wouldn't change his mind. Not after everything. "To have the Father read the banns."

She smiles, pulls away from him to see his face. Smiles wider at the bright eyes, the sparkle. Feels settled now, more like herself and less the ghost she has seemed.

"Oh, so you do plan to marry me then, Mr Carson?"

His hands slip to her waist, squeeze her sides while his lips straighten out into a flat line. "Do you think I buy property with every woman I meet, Mrs Hughes?"

She raises an eyebrow, tries not to squirm; he doesn't need to know now how ticklish she is. "I thought you were just concerned we might end up boarding with Mrs Patmore in two of her three rooms."

He shudders exaggeratedly. "That was a concern of course."

She laughs then, reaches up for his cheek in wonder at how much lighter he makes her feel.

"I suppose I will marry you." She says, knows he will see through her teasing, see how much she wants to. Has wanted to for a long time.

"Of course." He says, like she is a footman agreeing to use a saucière instead of a small tureen. He ruins it with his smile.

"We need to get back."

"We do." He doesn't move away, she doesn't push him.

"You'll tell His Lordship tomorrow?"

"I will, and you'll tell Her Ladyship-"

"Tomorrow."

He steps away from her then, heads back around the house to the gardens. Notices her absence beside him at the last minute. "Are you coming, Mrs Hughes?"

She smiles, waves him along. "I need to get some shawls for the Ladies." She says, points up to where clouds are starting to gather in the sky. "It'll save Anna and Miss Baxter the trip later."

"You're a good Housekeeper, Mrs Hughes. Downton will certainly feel the loss."

She fights a blush. {Later she will assure him the same is true for him, that no matter who has come before or comes after, he has made a difference to the house and to the family within it.}

"Get on with you." She says, shoos him away.

Their world is indeed changing although some things will certainly remain the same, she thinks.

She takes a deep breath and lets it straight out. She can still taste Summer.

 

**End.**

 

_**"Do you ever wish you'd gone another way?"** _

_**"Do you?"** _


	7. Another Way: E.M. Hughes

They meet up at their cafe in Greenwich. She is late, of course and he is early, as though that makes up for it.

She makes a point to be late these days, it's something he finds surprisingly endearing about her; anyone else and he would have ended their acquaintance long ago, he is far too busy to be kept waiting all the time.

{He told her that once. She called him pompous and said she would make him into a character in her next book. She has yet to uphold that threat, thankfully.}

"Sorry I'm late." She says, taking her customary seat and smiling down at the still steaming cup of tea he pushes towards her. She is at least predictable in her tardiness.

"What kept you this time?" He asks, arching a brow at her over his own cup. She lives only minutes away from this cafe, it's why they meet here still. "A falling star perhaps? A herd of elephants making their way through Kings Cross Station that you just had to see?"

She picks up her cup, sips primly and quirks her lip. "How did you know?" She affects a shocked tone. "Surely you couldn't hear the poor things trumpeting from here?"

She is all of his moments of madness in a world he takes pride in keeping staid and proper.

"The book?" He asks a moment later.

She sighs into her cup, nods. "The book."

She has been having exceptional difficulty with this latest novel. She tells him it's because the success of her other books was nothing more than luck, something she has now run out of. He doesn't believe a word of it, but having never read any of her work himself, he keeps quiet and often lets her talk her own way out of that opinion.

He has heard her tell stories of course - that one summer that Lady Sybil had taken to following him everywhere, she had been a good sport when he arrived for their tea with the young Lady in tow, had entertained both the child and himself over milk and biscuits with fantastic tales of dragons and magic.

But her novels, the adult ones she publishes, he has not touched. She has told him he won't like them, seriously and honestly, and he trusts her.

Eventually he'll read them, he supposes, but he has heard enough of the macabre topics during their conversations to believe she knows his tastes well enough.

She is afraid that his reading them will change his opinion of her. The insecurity in that is his own fault, he made her work quite hard to obtain his continued presence at this cafe and in her life. She worries that he might still walk away.

{She is a writer, an established author. He is a Butler. She had, quite stubbornly, refused to see why this made their association improper.}

He doesn't think there is anything she could write that would make him give up these afternoons in London now, or the few they have when she visits Downton. She has inexplicably become one of the foundations of his life and he does not like to shake the ground beneath his feet. The changing world is doing enough of that itself.

"So," she leans forward, hands folded neatly in her lap "tell me about the house. Has your Mrs Patmore adapted to the toaster yet?"

Her eyes are bright, eager as they always are when she asks after his life. Once, he worried that anything he told her might one day make the pages of a novel, but that was a long time ago, when he didn't know her nearly as well as he flatters himself that he does now.

"She is not _my_ Mrs Patmore." He starts and she shakes her head at him, waves a hand for him to continue. "But yes, she has reluctantly accepted the efficiency of the contraption."

She smiles, no doubt at his bitter tone. "Didn't I tell you, Charles? I don't know where I'd be without my little electric toaster now."

"Even later for appointments I suspect."

He isn't entirely joking but he says it to get her to laugh. She may be late, but always only by five minutes.

"Perhaps I'm only late for our appointments, Charles. Have you considered that?"

If only that were true, but he has seen her rush away from their teas panicked that she will miss her meeting with the Ladies of her circle. Although he suspects she is indeed on time then, they would not be as forgiving as he is.

He tries not to like too much that he is on par with her work as something she struggles to walk away from until she must. He wonders if she has the same trouble leaving her husband behind.

Shaking the thought off he reaches for the teapot and refills their cups.

They met in a bookshop in York, reaching for the same volume. He had offered it to her, having come away from their brief tussle the victor, but she had declined, claimed to already have read it and had only thought to pick it up in a moment sentimentality. He had put it back eventually, not sure it was to his liking. {He would only learn months later that it was her own book. She never has got over her wonder at seeing her novels on the shelves.}

She talked him into tea that day, surprising him with her knowledge of literature and philosophy. He had been fascinated by her, the way she used her hands, delicate fingers twirling and pointing, as she spoke. The sparkle in her eyes when they disagreed on a topic. The fierce lilt to her voice when she argued her point.

Somehow during that afternoon she pulled thoughts and stories from him he had never spoken of before. She had been much more careful with her own history, not lying, never that, but he walked away from the tea shop with the strange idea that he knew more about her mind and tastes, than he did about _her_.

It made sense later, when she told him who she is, what she does.

"You're thinking again, Charles." She draws him from the past with a tap against his wrist. "I've warned you about that."

"So you have."

"And still you never listen to me, Mr Carson."

"You've warned me not to do that as well." She laughs again, re-settles her hands in her lap. She is careful not to touch him for too long. Not to talk out of turn when others are around. She is as well versed in maintaining a certain image as he is, although he knows she is this way for him, more than herself. Her husband has no concerns about them and she cares little for others' opinions.

They have argued so often over the years. She has projects, charities he can't support her involvement with. {Her last maid had been a fallen women she met one day at a clinic.}

When Mrs Crawley arrived at Downton, she had strongly reminded Charles of Elsie. He doesn't think they have met, it worries him what they would do if they ever put their minds together.

"Come on Charles, you were telling me about the house."

He acknowledges her with a tilt of his head, tells her about Daisy and Ivy, about the troubles between James and Alfred. _'There'll be more trouble there if you're not careful Charles'_. Tells her about Lady Mary and Mr Crawley, about little Miss Sybbie's first word.

When he turns it around, she tells him about Lord and Lady Wilmott's new son-in-law, about the whispers surrounding the Countess of Grantly and how they're better stories than she could write. She tells him who will be needing new staff and who will be letting some go.

She is his bridge between worlds, this former-farmer's daughter, this author. She may have married well, but she remains very much herself. Sometimes he imagines he can see her as she might have become had things gone another way and she is not so very different.

He wonders if he would have known her then too.

"Do you have dinner plans tomorrow, Charles?"

"His Lordship is hosting a dinner party." He answers, though he would have found another excuse if need be. She often tries to invite him for dinner, says there is nothing wrong in it, that her husband regularly has his clerks over and says she should invite him.

He can have tea with her here, can meet to talk, here where he can fool himself that they are just two people. But in her own house, he would have to face the truth.

That, he knows, could end their acquaintance.

"Another time." She says, accepting as always. She has changed his mind on many things over the years, but not on this.

They finish their tea quietly and he enjoys the time to watch her while she thinks. He has lost her to the words in her head now, the unwritten pages of a book. She'll leave soon, head home to her study. He will return to the House, change into his livery and begin the evening service.

In a week or two, they will meet again and she will tell him she has broken through this latest wall in her plot, as she does every time.

She will goad him, cajole him, call him Charles. He will smile and joke, be Charles and not Mr Carson for a few hours and very carefully call her nothing at all.


End file.
